Sunday, March 30, 2008

The Chapman Report

The Chapman Report

Mykola Dementiuk

In 1962-63 I still remember the movie posters for The Chapman Report around Broadway which I saw one rainy afternoon. In the poster a high-heeled girl was sitting cross-legged and though her face wasn’t visible in the display it was clear that she was prepared to do something…to undress…to strip…to screw…or so I imagined…because at the time it seemed like she was in a rather short skirt just above the knee and just ripe for taking off, and holding a lit cigarette at that!

I recall how I hurried home and masturbated with the remembered sight of the luscious mysterious shimmer of her legs as a man was seated behind her and staring right at her. I must have seen that poster through the months as winter rolled into spring and my masturbating had intensified; it looked like the movie was going to run forever. I was just 15 and this was way before the Internet and even before DVD’s deleted a movie’s life span to just 2 weeks tops or maybe even 3 if it was a blockbuster like Indiana Jones or some such drivel.

On my usual wandering through the city streets in those days I’d occasionally pass by Mr. Dickey, who I tried to avoid, a neighborhood fellow who always stopped me and wanted to chat about what I was doing but would quickly end up talking quietly about sex. Well, whatever knowledge I had about sex came from my masturbation at home, in park bathrooms, Staten Island ferry boats and wherever I could be alone and play with myself.

Mr. Dickey -- if that was his real name -- was a funny man; he always wanted to know just a little bit more about me than I was willing to tell him. When I’d run into him he’d tenderly greet me and try to rub against me, commenting about my muscles and fortitude and if I wanted to come up to his apartment and show him a thing or two trying to put his arm around me…well that always got me running away from him…

“No, thanks,” I’d always say and scurry off…strangely my later masturbation would be a lot stronger and more forceful than just the usual boring repetitive beating, exploding, collapsing and exhausting myself.

One day up around Times Square, which I had taken to exploring, I turned red from embarrassment and tried to shield my face as there was Mr. Dickey, grinning and leering and coming in my direction.

“My, my,” he gushed. “So lovely to see you here,” and his voice went very low and hushed. “Tsk, tsk. In the adult area of the big city,” he leered and looked at me; somehow the fronts of our coats were pressed against the other and strangely I had grown as hard as I’m sure he was too; my face had turned incredibly red….

“I’ll bet you’re looking for a good movie to see, eh? I’ll treat you.” And he winked hopefully, turning to the movies on his right and across the street on his left. “Take your pick.” And his voice went low again, “my darling.”

As usual I wanted to get away from him, knowing what any contact with him meant, but being away from my neighborhood and little chance of seeing anyone I knew, I turned and looked over at the movie theater displays. My eyes immediately fell upon The Chapman Report, showing in a 42nd street theater but I frowned and shook my head knowing it wasn’t possible to see that film at my age; they still had moral codes in those days.

Mr. Dickey saw my sudden frustration; we were practically close to where our arms were in constant touch and rubbing to the others.

I told him, and he sadly but so knowingly caressed my arm --though I didn’t tell him about the actress whose legs I’d been dreaming and beating off to. I think he wanted to kiss me, and in another time and place, he probably would have.

“Yes, yes,” he whispered. “I know it’s not fair.” He brightened. “But I know where they will let you in,” he hinted, gesturing to Broadway. “Less people there and a little bit more expensive, but my treat,” again his voice went silent, “and more privacy, if you know what I mean?”

I looked at him but didn’t say anything; glad I was wearing a raincoat and hiding my erection. I followed him along up the street and we quickly came to the Loew’s theater on 44th street; the actress sitting with her legs crossed had been blown up to incredible size in the poster just teasing and luring the passers by.

“By the way,” whispered Mr. Dickey, “I’m your uncle and you’re nephew, if anyone asks; which I’m sure they won’t.”

I shrugged, but very nervous, and the ticket booth the female teller suspiciously looked at me.

“My nephew,” said Mr. Dickey, looking and smiling warmly at me. The ticket teller studied us then buzzed us through. I’m sure I breathed a sigh of relief and passed my way in.

We stood at the elegant red-decorated popcorn-smelling concession stand and I ordered popcorn and JuJu beans candy -- again Mr. Dickey’s treat -- and we made our way into the dark movie-screen auditorium. There wasn’t even a hint of nudity or any erotic activity on the screen, just constant talking but being in that sensuous place, like I imagined I was in, made me grow even harder.

We walked down the theater aisle to almost the front and I collapsed into a seat, unbuttoned my coat but left it on, glad I was sitting down. Slowly I nibbled on the popcorn as Mr. Dickey sat next to me, breathing very hard and deeply while staring at the side of my face.

I looked at the screen where Shelly Winters was having an affair, as Clair Bloom played an alcoholic nymphomaniac, while Jane Fonda acted out a frigid housewife and all aimed in the end to getting it and liking it. It was hard to focus and pay attention as Mr. Dickey moved his arm to my own and whispered, “It’s so nice here with you. Am very glad you’re with me. We can hold hands…it’s very dark here too…and no one will see.” And he paused, “you’re such a nice boy…”

I guess I shrugged since by then I had finished with my popcorn and felt his hand take my own. His fingers were gentle but very active, as if they were holding and caressing a toy bunny or rabbit, and I let the fingers persist in their motion and they caressed my hand and arm and moved to my lap. I was incredibly hard and when he bent down and his lips breathed in my ear at the side of my face his nearness and what was happening made me shoot off, the semen oozing onto my underwear and pants, imagining I was spewing onto Shelly and Clair and Jane all at once….

Needless to say I collapsed in that seat, exhausted and breathing very heavily then quietly whispered, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Mr. Dickey looked lovingly at me -- I was certain he knew what had just happened -- and whispered, “Oh please, hurry back. I can’t stand being apart from you,” still holding my hand before letting it go.

Quickly I staggered to the back of the theater, avoiding the stare from the ticket seller who had let us in maybe 30, 40 minutes ago, and glad I had my raincoat, and went outside…

It was raining…I walked downtown in the drizzle and went home…

Years have gone by yet every time I masturbate I think of Mr. Dickey…and wonder whether he’s still waiting in the theater…guess he is…alone….Hey, but I never did see the beginning or end of The Chapman Report, we came in the middlewonder how it went…guess I’ll never know….



Sally Miller said...

What a sad little story. I remember reading The Chapman Report (it is still in my library) and finding it erotic in its information.

Kage Alan said...

I wonder how many other kids he did that to. Makes me wonder whatever actually happened to him.